


Doctor Does Dining

by FernDavant



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen, daring dates, dim Doctor, dinner disasters, domestic debacles, terrible alliteration, whouffaldiweek2k16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6328576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/pseuds/FernDavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara was just trying to make some chicken soup, but then the Doctor came along to help. Her kitchen's a mess, there's chicken in her hair, and she really hopes the Doctor's 'helping' is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Does Dining

She was covered, head to toe, in chicken soup. It was dripping off her, and she was fairly sure she had chicken chunks in her hair. She struggled to find something positive about the whole situation. Well, at least the soup had been lukewarm and not hot.

“Oops,” the Doctor said, peering at her over the rim of his sonic sunglasses. This was his fault.

“Why, on Earth, would you sonic chicken soup? _Why_ did you even think you should help me cook? How is there so much bloody chicken soup? I was only making a potful!”

The Doctor mumbled something about ‘helping,’ and ‘molecular expansion,’ and ‘limited software integration for organics, following the turkey incident.’

"Why did you want chicken soup, anyway? Are you ill? Why do humans insist that chicken soup is some sort of medicine?"

"I'm not ill,” Clara huffed. "I just wanted chicken soup. Nice, simple, homemade chicken soup."

"You're not very good at cooking. Do you think that was wise?"

"I cook perfectly fine, and I'm not the one who caused this!"

"So defensive," the Doctor muttered.

Clara took a deep breath to clear her mind of all thoughts of violence. She sighed and examined the kitchen. There was chicken soup dripping from the kitchen ceiling, and chicken soup on the floor. The pot that Clara had been using to make the soup had inexplicably melted, looking like a particularly menacing weapon she'd once seen on their travels. It would take forever to clean this up, and Clara really didn't feel like starting until after she wasn't covered in chicken stock and miscellaneous vegetables and chicken bits.

The Doctor pulled a bit of chicken out of her hair and nibbled on it. "It would've been pretty good soup," he said wistfully.

Clara glared at him. "Look. I'm going to take a shower, then I'm going to come back and start on cleaning up. You are going to sit in my living room and do absolutely nothing 'helpful,' or alternatively, pop back in the TARDIS and amuse yourself until I'm through. "

"Are you sure? I could help--"

"Really had enough of your help," Clara snapped, furiously brushing bits of chicken off of her and into the sink. "Just—just make yourself scarce."

By the time Clara had gathered fresh clothes and made it to the shower, her anger had faded. By the time she was done with the shower, she was beginning to feel bad about snapping at the Doctor. Like a mature adult who could deal well with confrontation, Clara dawdled in the bathroom, running through ways to apologize to the Doctor and feeling increasingly guilty.

Clara might have dawdled even longer in the bathroom had the smell of more chicken soup not started coming from the kitchen.

Clara walked out of the bathroom, hair damp, but at least, now, not damp with chicken broth. Hesitantly, Clara peeked in and was shocked by what she saw. The kitchen was clean and dry and actually appeared in better shape than before the soup disaster. In fact, it looked in better shape than when she’d move into the flat.  

The Doctor was nowhere to be seen, but there was a partially full pot of soup on her stove, and it looked like he'd taken some of her plates and glasses from the cupboards. Clara crept to her living room to find the Doctor fussing about at her table, setting out bowls of soup, a plate full of delicious looking French bread, and a bottle of wine. There was even a lit candle on the table.

Clara cleared her throat rather deliberately.

The Doctor turned towards her.

Clara folded her arms. "I thought I told you to stay out of trouble and out of the kitchen."

The Doctor folded his arms. "And I told you I could help."

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Clara cracked a grin. The Doctor responded in kind.

The Doctor gestured at the table, pointing at each portion of the meal individually. "Fresh French bread handmade by 19th century French peasants on an idyllic little farm. Italian wine from the Renaissance period. Well aged. Not linearly aged of course, that'd just be vinegary and—erm, sorry. Got distracted. And finally, chicken soup a la Julia Childs."

Clara cocked an eyebrow. "Wow. That's a lot of effort. And how'd you manage the kitchen?"

"Cleaning nano-machines. Roughly 100 years from now you'll be able to buy them at a store, packaged in a spray bottle. They are 100% and more intelligent than most of your students."

The Doctor gestured for Clara to have a seat and start eating. Clara did and the Doctor sat opposite her, watching her face eagerly to determine if she was enjoying the food and drink, all while simultaneously pretending he wasn't watching her eagerly, at all, in the slightest.

The meal was amazing, the bread fresh and warm and rich, with a vaguely sweet flavor, the chicken soup savory and with an aftertaste she couldn't quite pinpoint that was unlike any chicken soup she'd ever tasted, and the wine was sublime, if a little strong.

"This is fantastic," Clara said. "Why go to all this trouble, though?"

The Doctor poked his chicken soup with his spoon like it was an alien life form. "I didn't have a notecard to cover this. Besides, humans like this kind of thing. Candlelit dinner with homemade food. I mean, it wasn't my home, but it was made in a—"

"Is this a date?" Clara asked, failing to contain a smirk that was mostly false bravado.

"Would you like it to be?"

"Maybe."

They looked at each other.

The Doctor blinked. "Then, maybe it is."

"You're not my boyfriend, though."

"No," the Doctor began carefully. "I’m not a good boyfriend. I don’t do boyfriends. I can do other things, though.”

Clara waggled her eyebrows. “What sorts of things?”

“Extorting Julia Childs into making you soup. Cleaning your kitchen. Bringing you on day trips around the universe.”

“Not what I was implying,” Clara sighed. Captain Oblivious may have managed a romantic dinner, but it clearly was a work in progress. “What am I to you, then?”

The Doctor looked confused by this. "You're Clara."

He was so earnest about it that it pained her a little. She was quiet for a moment.

"Ah. Good. Glad we got that settled then," Clara cleared her throat, finally speaking at last. "Are you going to eat that food or just stare at it?”

"I actually just realized I'm not hungry," the Doctor admitted with a sideways grin and a blush, gulping down a large mouthful of wine.

"Idiot," Clara said fondly.

"I can place all the leftovers in a localized time field to keep them fresh, and then—"

"Scale of 1-10, how likely is a localized time field to explode?" Clara interrupted.

"Erm," the Doctor hemmed. "The universe is really variable, and—"

"Yeah, I think I'll just risk putting everything in containers."

"But—“

"I'm kind of old-fashioned," Clara said. "Also, slightly afraid you'll blow yourself up."

The Doctor sulked. Clara tried to pretend that this was annoying and not sort of cute.

"Thank you, though," she said at last.

"We're good then?" the Doctor questioned hesitantly.

"Doctor, right now, we are great."


End file.
